6 Aya Mansour Translations by Haider Catan and Tim Heffernan

By , and | 1 June 2022

The words of mothers

They didn’t allow me to collect the remaining perfume of my child, to arrange and hold it in my nose. On his return from the battlefield, he was impatient, and as usual he forgot many things: this time his right hand, and his soul as well, as he was satisfied with a bullet in his lung’s pocket, with a torn bag of second hand death. I — with no hope — begged them, but they took him to the cemetery without letting me see him, so many months of useless crying. I suggested they might pick my eyes, and feed them to the mouth of the grave, so the eyes could watch my son. There, if he needed water my eyes would shed tears. I hope that his hand grows back, or that my crying could wet his drying heart. I was surprised when I found the windows of the grave open, while the place was empty. The sounds of shelling and bullets were heard from a hole leading to the battlefield.

أحاديث الامهات

لم يسمحوا لي بلملمة ما تبقى من روائح صغيري، لترتيبها وضمها في خزانات أنفي. بعودته من الجبهة، كان مستعجلا، و ناسيا كعادته: العديد من الاشياء، هذه المرة نسي يده اليمنى، وروحه كذلك، كان مكتفيا برصاصة في جيب رئته مع كيس ممزق لموت مستعجل؛ لكني – ودون نتيجة – توسلتهم، و ذهبوا به الى متحف المقبرة دون أن اراه، و لعدة اشهر، من التفريط بالبكاء بلا فائدة؛ اقترحت أن يقطفوا عيني، و يطعموها لفم القبر، عسى أن تطمئن على ابني، هناك، أذا ما كان بحاجة لسقيه بالنحيب. عسى أن تنمو يده او يبلل جفاف قلبه بكائي، لكنني تفاجأت و انا اجد نوافذ القبر مفتوحة. بينما المكان خال، كانت اصوات القصف والرصاص تبنعث من ثقب يؤدي الى الجبهة.


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